I lay on my side on the examination table, fists clenched, shirt folded up to expose a patch of numbed and disinfected skin, waiting for the radiologist to slide the biopsy needle between my ribs and into my liver like a meat thermometer into a chicken. It was May 2008. I was twenty-five, and I felt healthy.
One night a year earlier, I’d begun to feel a deep, radiating pain in my right side like a cramp, which left me doubled over on the bathroom floor thinking about ambulances. It lasted about an hour and then it went away. A few days later, it came back. I went to the doctor. I thought it was a kidney stone; he thought it was a kidney stone; but he sent me for an immediate CT scan “just to be sure.” On my lunch break from work, I found myself on my back in the smooth, clicking white donut of the scanner, holding my breath on command while the technician peered into my abdomen with x-ray vision. The scan showed a small stone, as expected. It also showed a shadowy spot next door in my liver. That’s when the chase began.
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